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Neuland unterm Pflug: erstes Buch (1932)

von Mikhail Sholokhov

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Om kollektiviseringens gennemførelse i en lille kosaklandsby.
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In this novel Mikhail Sholokhov shows the reader the faults and ambitions of the farmers after the Russian revolution. This is village life with laughter and arguments while the collective farm is set up. There are those who support this as progress and those who oppose giving over their land, grain and animals to the collective farm. There are hard workers and slackers. The land is described by Sholokhov beautifully and how the seasons are important to farming. Outworn traditions are swept away and there is massive change in this novel. A useful read for understanding post-revolution Russia. ( )
1 abstimmen CarolKub | Jan 27, 2017 |
Russian/Reader
  Budzul | May 31, 2008 |
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Andrei looked at them and with trembling lips said dully, “I’m not working any more.”

“Not working? Where?" Nagulnov moved the abacus aside.

“I’m not going to dispossess anyone any more. Well, what are you staring at? Going to have a fit, or what?”

“Are you drunk?” Davidov anxiously regarded Andrei's angrily determined face. “What’s the matter? What do you mean by it?”

At the sound of his calm tenor voice Andrei flew into a rage and, stammering with agitation, shouted, “I’m not trained for it! I . . . I . . . I’m not trained to fight children! At the front it was different! I could sabre anyone. . . . I won’t do it!”

Andrei’s voice rose higher and higher like the sound of a tautened string, till it reached breaking point. Then with a hoarse sigh it suddenly dropped to a low whisper:

“Is this the way we ought to act? What am I? A hangman? Do you think I’ve got a heart of iron? I had enough in the war.” His voice rose again to a shout, “Gayev’s got eleven children! When we got there, how they howled! Made my hair stand on end! We started turning them out of the house. I had to shut my eyes and ears and get away! The women were wailing, the daughter-in-law, they had to bring her round with water . . . the children. . . .”

“Have a cry! You’ll feel better,” Nagulnov advised, grinding his hand flat against the twitching muscle of his cheek and staring at Andrei with burning eyes.

“I will cry! Perhaps my little boy. . .” Andrei broke off, gritting his teeth and turned his back on the table.

There was a silence.

Davidov rose slowly from his chair. Slowly his unbandaged cheek became a dull purple and one ear whitened. He went up to Andrei, took him by the shoulders and gently turned him round. He spoke breathlessly, his eyes fixed heavily on Andrei’s face.

“You pity them. You’re sorry for them. Did they pity us? Did our enemies cry over our children’s tears? Did they cry over the orphans of those they killed? Did they? My father was sacked after a strike at the factory, then sent to Siberia. Mother had four of us. I was nine, the oldest. We had nothing to eat so my mother. . . . Look at me! She walked the streets to save us from starving. She’d bring a guest into our little room—we lived in a cellar—we had only one bed left. So we’d lie behind a curtain. . . on the floor. And I was only nine. Sometimes they used to come to her drunk. And I would put my hands over my little sisters’ mouths to stop them crying. Who wiped our tears? Do you hear? And in the morning I’d take that damned ruble. . .” Davidov lifted his calloused palm to Andrei’s face and ground his teeth bitterly, “the ruble Mum had earned, and go to buy bread.” And suddenly he crashed his fist down on the table like a lump of lead and shouted, “You! How can you pity them!”
Kondrat Maidannikov walked home from the meeting. The smouldering fires of the Great Bear glimmered overhead. It was so still that the sound of the earth cracking in the frost, even the rustle of a frozen branch could be heard from afar. When he reached home, Kondrat went out to the oxen in the stables and tossed a meagre bundle of hay into the manger for them, but then, remembering that tomorrow they would go to the common stables, gathered up a great armful of hay and said aloud:

“So now it’s time for us to part. Move over, Baldy! Four years we’ve worked together, Cossack for ox, and ox for Cossack and it hasn’t got us anywhere. You’ve gone hungry and I’ve tried my patience. So I’ve decided to change you for the common life. What are you pricking up your ears for, as if you knew anything?”

He kicked the big ox, pushed its wet, munching muzzle aside, and as his eyes met the purple eyes of the ox, suddenly remembered how five years ago he had waited for this ox to be born. His old cow had gone with the bull so secretly that neither the cowherd, nor Kondrat had seen her. In autumn there was nothing to show for a long time that she was with calf. “So she’ll stay barren after all, curse her!” Kondrat thought grimly, looking at the cow. But the cow stopped milking at the end of November, like all old cows, a month before calving. How many times of a cold night had Kondrat woken up as if someone had shaken him, and, pushing his feet into his boots, run out to the stable in only his underpants to see if the cow was calving. The frosts were bitter and the calf might get frozen as soon as its mother had licked it clean. In the end Kondrat hardly slept at all. One morning his wife Anna came in looking more cheerful than usual and said with a note of awe in her voice, “The old one has given a sign. It should be tonight.”

Kondrat lay down on his bed that evening without undressing or putting out the light. Seven times he went out to see the cow. And only at the eighth visit, when it was nearly dawn, before he could open the stable door, he heard a deep labouring groan. A tiny white-muzzled calf, its shaggy coat already licked clean, was shivering and seeking the udder with clammy lips. Kondrat picked up the calf, and breathing on it to keep it warm while he wrapped it in the hem of his coat, ran with it to the house.

“A bull!” he shouted joyfully.

Anna crossed herself. “Thanks be to the Lord. The Saviour has seen our poverty.”

And Kondrat with his one poor nag knew what poverty was. And now the bull grew up and worked well for Kondrat in summer and winter cold, plodding over the roads and fields with cart or plough.

As he looked at the ox, Kondrat suddenly felt a sharp lump in his throat, a smarting in the eyes. He wept and left the stable, with a sense of being relieved by his tears. The rest of the night he lay in bed smoking.
After breakfast he went off to the fowl yard. Akim Beskhlebnov greeted him with an angry shout, “What are you hanging round for at this hour?”

“Come to see how you and the fowls are getting on. How’s life, Granfer?”

“Life? Used to have a life, now I’d rather be out”

“How so?”

“This job with the hens is pulling me to pieces!”

“In what way?”

“You just try it for a day or two, then you’ll know!” These perishing cocks are fighting each other the whole day, I’ve been run off my legs, chasing them about. You’d think the hens wouldn’t be so bad, the weaker sex, you know, but even they peck each other’s combs, and round the yard they go! Drat this job! I’m going to Davidov today to resign and ask him to put me on the bees.”

“They’ll get used to each other, Granfer.”

“Before they get used to each other, I’ll be dead and gone. Do you call this a man’s job? Say what you like, but I’m a Cossack, served in the Turkish campaign, I did. And now they make me commander-in-chief of a lot of chickens and expect me to like it! I’ve been on this job for two days and there’s no getting away from the children. As soon as I go home, the little brats are after me, ‘Granfer hen-feeler! Granfer Akim, the henfeeler!’ they shout. After being respected all my life, am I to die with a nickname like that? I’ve no desire for that, thank you!”

“Go on, Granfer! What do you expect of children?”

“If it was only the children it wouldn’t matter, but some of the women are joining in. Yesterday I was going home for my dinner. Nastenka Donetskova was standing by the well drawing water. ‘Managing the hens, Granfer?’ she asks. ‘Yes, I am,’ I says. ‘Any of them laying, Granfer?’ ‘Some of them, my dear,’ I says, ‘but they’re not doing very well.’ And she, the Kalmyk filly, brays at me, ‘Look out then,’ she says, ‘mind they lay a basket of eggs by ploughing time, or we’ll make you get on those hens yourself and liven them up!’ I’m an old man to have to listen to such jokes, and I don’t like this job at all, I can tell you.”

The old man wanted to say something more, but just then two cockerels by the fence sparred up at one another; blood spurted from the comb of one and a bunch of feathers flew out of the other’s pouter. Granfer Akim trotted off to them, arming himself with a twig as he went.

Though it was still early, the collective-farm office was crowded. A two-horse sledge stood in the yard waiting for Davidov, who was going off to the district centre. Lapshinov’s ambler was there too, stamping in the snow, and Lubishkin was busy round it, tightening the saddle girths. He, too, was preparing for a journey, to Tubyanskoi, where he had to arrange with the local collective-farm management about the supply of a winnower.

Kondrat entered the first room. An accountant, who had recently arrived from the stanitsa, was peering through the ledgers. Yakov Lukich, gloomy and hollow-cheeked of late, sat opposite him, writing. Members of the collective farm appointed by the work-organizer to cart hay were crowding round. In the corner pock-marked Agafon Dubtsov, leader of the third team, and Arkashka the Bargainer were arguing about something with the village’s one and only blacksmith, Ippolit Shaly. Razmyotnov’s sharp cheerful voice could be heard coming from the next room.

He had only just arrived and was hurrying to tell Davidov something.

“Four old women came to see me early this morning. That old dame Ulyana, Mishka Ignatyonok’s mother, brought them. Do you know her? You don’t? Regular old dame, weighs a good seven poods, I reckon, got a wart on her nose. Well, they came. Dame Ulyana’s in such a temper, she can hardly breathe and the wart on her nose looks fit to burst. And out she comes at me, ‘Look here, you so-and-so, you this and that!’ People waiting for me at the Soviet and she starts cursing me up hill and down dale. Of course, I says to her sternly, ‘Stop that noise or I’ll send you off to the stanitsa for contempt of authority. What are you raving about?’ I ask. ‘What do you think you’re doing, playing up the old women?’ she shouts. ‘How dare you make fun of old age!’ I could hardly get them to tell me what was wrong. It seems they’d heard that all the old women over sixty who were unfit to work would be told by the management board in spring to. . . .” Razmyotnov’s cheeks swelled with laughter. “There’s supposed to be a shortage of the ‘steam engines’ that hatch out eggs, so the old women are to be given the job. That’s what made them so wild. Old Ulyana was screaming like a stuck pig, ‘What! Make me sit on eggs? Not one egg will I ever sit on! I’ll lay all of you out with a panhandle and drown myself first!’ I could hardly talk them round. ‘Don’t drown yourself, Dame Ulyana,’ I says, ‘there’s not enough water in our little river to cover you anyway. This is all just a lot of kulak make-believe.’ So you see how things are, Comrade Davidov! Our enemies are putting all these lies around to hinder our work. I asked some questions about where they had heard that rumour and I found out. There was a nun in the village the day before yesterday, from Voiskovoi. She spent the night at Timofei Borshchov’s and told them the fowls had been got together so we could send them to town for the townsfolk to make noodle soup with, then we would fix up little chairs for the old women, a special shape, with straw on them, and make them sit on our eggs till they hatched, and any old woman who rebelled would be tied to her chair.”

“Where’s that nun now?” Nagulnov, who had been listening to the story, asked quickly.

“Taken herself off. She’s no fool: tells her lies and moves on.”

“Those black crows ought to be arrested and put where they belong. What a pity I didn’t meet her! I’d tie up her head in her skirt and give her a good hiding. Call yourself chairman of the village Soviet and anybody who likes can spend a night in the village. A fine state of affairs!”

“I can’t keep track of everyone, can I!”

Davidov sat at the table with a sheepskin over his overcoat, taking a last glance at the plan of spring field work that the general meeting had confirmed. Without lifting his eyes from the paper, he said, “Spreading slander against us is an old trick of the enemy’s. He wants to blacken all our work of construction. And sometimes we put a trump card right into his hands, as we have with the fowls.”
Grandad Shchukar sighed. “A bit too late! If they’d made a worker out of me forty years ago, I might have been a different man. I’ve never had any luck as a peasant. Ever since boyhood, my life’s had a twist in it, and it still has. It’s like a wind carrying me along, scraping me agin this, bashing me agin that, and some days it just about knocks me out.”

“How so?” Davidov asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it. Let the horses go on at a trot and I’ll tell you my troubles. You may be gloomy sort, but you must have a bit of understanding and sympathy in you. The number of serious things that’s happened to me. Right from the time when was born, the midwife says to my old mother, ‘As soon as your son grows up he’ll be a general. He’s got the makings of a general: his forehead’s narrow, his head’s like a pumpkin, and he’s got a pot belly and a deep voice. You’re in luck, Matryona!’ And two weeks later everything started going against that woman words. I was born on Yevdokia’s Day, but the signs was all wrong: there wasn’t a thaw for the hens to have a drink, and even the sparrows, so my old mother said were frozen to death in mid-air. They took me to be christened at Tubyanskoi. Now just consider it yourself, was it a reasonable thing to do to put a child in the font in such cold? They started to warm the water, and that church warden and the priest were drunk as a bitch’s pups. One of them poured boiling water into the font, and the other forgot to try it. And then it was, ‘Lord Jesus, a slave of God is christened!’ and into that boiling water I went head first. Took all the skin off me! When they got me home I was all blisters. That was what gave me my rupture, I hollered so much I strained my inside. And ever after that I was unlucky all along the line! And it’s all because I got tipped straight into country life as soon as I was brought into the world. Before I was nine, dogs had bitten me, a goose pecked me, and a young foal nearly kicked me to death. And after that age the things that happened to me got more and more serious. And in my tenth year I was caught, yes, caught in the natural sense of the word, on a hook.”

“What hook?” asked Davidov in surprise, listening to the old man’s tale with some attention.

“Just an ordinary one, the kind they catch fish with. In those days there used to be a deaf and shaky old fellow in Gremyachy called Kupir. In winter he used to catch partridge with nets and snares, and in summer he just disappeared altogether with his fishing-rods down by the river. In those days our little river used to be deeper and Lapshinov used to have a mill there. And under the dam the carp used to breed, and some great big pike. So the old fellow, he used to sit there by the bush with his fishing-rods. He’d bait about seven of them at a time—one with a worm, another with a bit of dough, and some even with a bit of live bait to catch the pike. And we, youngsters, had found a way of biting off his hooks. The old fellow was deaf as a post, you see, if you poured water into his ear, he still wouldn’t notice anything. So we’d go down to the stream together, take off our clothes behind a bush, and one of us would creep quietly into the water without making any ripples. Then he’d dive under the old fellow’s lines, get hold of the outside one, snap it off with his teeth and swim back behind the bush. And the old fellow would pull in his line with trembling hands and then shout, ‘Eh, you devil, bit it off again? Holy Mother of God!’ He’d thought it was the pike, you see, and of course he was wild because he’d lost his hook. He used to buy his hooks in the shop, but we hadn’t got anything to buy hooks with so we pinched his. Well, one time I had bitten off one hook and was thinking of taking another. I saw the old fellow was busy with his baits, so in I went. And I’d only just got hold of the line and put it in my mouth, when the old fellow, he gave it such a pull! The line slipped out of my hand and the hook got caught in my upper lip. I tried to shout but the water poured into my mouth. And there he was hauling away on his line, trying to pull me out. And I was kicking my legs in great pain, o’ course, being dragged about on a hook, and I could feel the old fellow pushing his scoop under me to fish me out. Well, then o’ course, I came up on top and gave a terrible yell. The old fellow was struck dumb, he tried to make the sign of the cross and just couldn’t, and his face turned black with fear. And how could he help being scared to death? He’d been fishing for pike and fished out a boy! He stood there for a bit, then how he ran! His slippers nearly came off his feet! And I went home with that hook still in my lip. Father cut it out, then thrashed me till I lost consciousness. But what was the use? My lip healed up again, but ever since I’ve been called Shchukar [From shchuka—pike]. Stuck to me it has, that stupid nickname. . . .
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